


On a Dagger's Edge

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Kinky Paladins, Knifeplay, Mentions of Fantasy Racism, Sexually Charged Antagonistic Encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: “You're quiet, for a seven-foot-tall woman."“You're calm, for a man with a knife to his airpipe."





	On a Dagger's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> For Kinktober day three, knifeplay.

One moment, all was the temple's quiet: the fountain singing to itself, the sound of wind playing in the jasmine vines, the soft crunch of gravel under his feet. Then: thick fingers on his shoulder, breath on his ear, cold flat metal against his throat. A faint smell, not quite like sweat.

“You're quiet, for a seven-foot-tall woman,” he said, very low. His throat bobbed against the blade.

“You're calm, for a man with a knife to his airpipe,” she said. Her voice was deep, and rough – always was, but rougher now. The knife did not bite into him.

“I had a feeling you'd be here,” he said. “And I trust in my god.”

“Did your god give you an iron throat?” The knife slid a little, sideways. Not biting yet.

“No,” he said. “But my god gave me you.”

“I'm not – not yours.” Even if she hadn't spoken, he could feel her breath hitch on the nape of his neck.

“No more than I'm yours, or anyone anyone's,” he agreed, a little faster than he'd spoken before. “No, what I meant was that you're a good woman. I don't think you're going to kill me.”

A faint, hysterical laugh. She leaned closer, her cheek against his. Her tusk a smooth warm pressure to match the smooth cold line of the knife. She had to be bent low, for that.

“No? I've killed people before. Some of them might have been good men.”

“I think there's a compliment to me in there,” he said. His heart skipped a beat, which it could have done for any number of reasons. “And I know you have. But you could have killed me from the jasmine vines, and be over the wall by now and gone. I know you've a decent aim from a distance, and it's not as if the dark's an obstacle.”

“Most people assume I can't use anything but a battleaxe, you know,” she said.

“I try not to be an idiot.”

“Maybe I just like holding a knife to your skin.” The point caressed his jugular. Her voice shook; he doubted her hands ever would.

“So do the women at the House of Razor Joy,” he said, keeping his voice as even as he could. “You can hold a knife to my throat any day of the week you like. It doesn't mean you'll kill me.”

That startled her; he could feel her breathing stop, and start again. The knife didn't falter. She was good, good as any cutpurse in the city. And she'd learned how to be that good when she was seven feet of green. No blending into the crowd for her.

“You're a _holy man_ ,” she said. “A knight, I thought.”

“I am at that,” he said. “But a knight of the god of peace and passions both. And of forgiveness.”

“What are you forgiving, exactly?” she asked. Wary, now. He wasn't good at this.

“Trespassing?” he tried, as lightly as he could. “And not much else. I don't think you've done much that needs forgiving. And even less by me.”

A long, slow exhalation. Silence. The knife slackening slightly at his throat. Moving carefully, he reached up, wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Raised the knife again, until the edge rested just below his jaw, and a single twitch would part the skin. Softly, with just the tip of his finger, he pressed on. A single, searing line of pain, and then her hand might have been carved from stone.

“See?” he said, and felt the cut open wider as his jaw moved with the words. “You won't kill me. I trust you, even if you don't.”

“I – you're bleeding,” she said.

“I know. Zhakhana, may I turn?”

“I – yes. Sure. Yeah.”

He still held her wrist, still held the knife. She lowered it a little, until it was only the flat against his windpipe again, and gave him space to turn. He didn't try for more space; had she tried to give it to him, he might well have just clung to her hand. Her eyes were on the blade.

“Zhakhana,” he said, soft as he could. “Look at me.” She did.

Her eyes glowed red in the dim moonlight, pupils swelled to walk the shadow. Faint stubble showed on her scalp, no more; her ears were short and stubby points. One eyebrow she wore pierced three times; another gold stud was half-buried in the ridges of her nose.

“I meant it,” he said. “You may hold a knife on me any time you choose. I'll even like it. I've bled for far, far worse than you.”

A long, slow breath. “I may hold you to that,” she said. And then she kissed him, his fingers at her wrist, his pulse still hammering against the dagger in her hand. He kissed her back.

By the time his eyes were open, she was gone.

 


End file.
